


Swan

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 18:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Eönwë finds a pretty thing locked high in a tower.





	Swan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurawolfgirl2000](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aurawolfgirl2000).



> A/N: Fill for aurawolfgirl2000’s “20 [Tower] with Eonwe/Maglor [...] fairy tale au.” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The air is crisp and clear, bluer than most days, and Eönwë soars through the clouds just to feel the wind ruffle his feathers. His wings are spread to the very tip, wanting to _feel_ it all, because his existence is only this: pure _experience_. There isn’t much else to do, but he’s hardly weary; his being is deathless and tireless. He listens for the call of birds, both the _true_ birds and the _different_ ones, like him, spirits only in this shape to utilize the air. The cries of birds are many and varied, always to be harkened to.

Today, there’s something _else_ that whistles over it, closer than the swallows far to the east and the doves to the south. For a moment, Eönwë forgets to beat his wings and just drifts in place, listening intently. It’s a song he’s never heard before, one melancholy and odd, in a language he knows but has never used. He lets the music shiver through him, and he knows he _has_ to meet the singer.

He ducks, then, swoops low, barreling down towards the earth, until he’s broken through the last barrier of clouds to see the sprawling estate below. Made of dark stone, seven towers rise up, pillars that peak in pointed turrets and hold one window each around the sides. The third largest is the one that Eönwë moves to, though he’s always taken care never to approach those on the ground before—they tend to throw rocks or spears; they don’t _understand_ things like him. Yet the song he breathes in is full of comprehension far beyond the mortal mind, and Eönwë’s drawn towards it.

He flies to the tall window of the tower, only to slow and withdraw his wings, pulling them back inside his body to extend his arms instead, his legs twisting longer and his feathers becoming white-blond hair that cascades smoothly down his back. He has a form like this, one that could be disguised amongst the ground-walkers, if he were to actually use his feet instead of floating. He eyes the window before him as his transformation finishes, until he looks very much like the creature perched upon the windowsill.

Eyes closed and lips parted, the singer is a handsome man, one with long, black hair pulled over his shoulder—his slender fingers weave into it as he sings, braiding it down towards the end. His lilac robes seem to sparkle about him, highlighted here and there with little gems, like the stones that hang from his ears and encircle his forehead. His lashes are long, his mouth pink and full, and for a moment, Eönwë is transfixed with this: a mortal creature, or at least, mortal in the sense that _it can die_ and cannot do what Eönwë can, yet bearing a voice greater than the birds.

Eönwë is mesmerized. He feels foolish now for spending so many centuries in the clouds. If he’d known the world was _like this_ below, he might’ve come down earlier. He soaks in what he can in the moment, appreciating every subtle nuance, from the way the light hits the singer’s hair to the way his chest rises with each breath. Then the song hits its peak, rising high and dwindling low, and it grows hushed until it’s gone. 

The man opens his eyes, spots Eönwë, and both dark pupils grow wide around their edges. His fingers still. Eönwë tells him, “That was beautiful.”

“Thank you,” the man answers, though he looks too distracted to have properly understood the sincerity of Eönwë’s statement. Tilting his head, he asks, breathless, “What are you?”

“Eönwë, a spirit of the air.” The man opens and closes his mouth as though trying and failing to process the information, and Eönwë presses, “What may I call you?”

“Maglor,” he answers. Then he dips his head forward as though falling into a bow, and it takes Eönwë a moment to remember the meaning of such things—respect, he thinks. He mirrors the movement. Maglor blushes pink across his high cheeks, something that Eönwë finds bizarrely endearing. 

In the strange silence that follows, filled only with Maglor’s uncertain stare, Eönwë explains, “I heard your song, and I had to come see you for myself. I have heard many birds sing in my time, but none so well as you.” Maglor’s face flushes darker, a small smile tugging at his lips, and Eönwë need remember no customs to tell what that means. He can read the flattered pleasure in Maglor’s eyes. It only enhances his beauty. Eönwë wonders aloud, “Why have I never heard this before? I am always about, and you are not so young as to be new...”

It takes a while for Maglor to reply, though he looks still more like he’s trying to digest what he’s heard instead of searching for the answer. Finally, he asks, “Where do you fly?”

“Here,” Eönwë muses, “and there. As far as the sky goes. I know well what I speak of.”

With a small, strange laugh, Maglor mutters, “But that is why, then. For this is as high as I have been, and this is now the only place where I might sing.”

It’s Eönwë’s turn to be startled, and he asks, confused, “Why is that?” There are many skies worth singing to, many that would hear Maglor’s words well and carry them far. Maglor’s smile increases, but it looks different now, and his eyes are sad. It makes the beating organ at Eönwë’s core clench and worry. 

Maglor quietly answers, “I am not to leave this tower.”

“But _why_?” 

“Because my father wills it. You did not hear, I suppose, when the great Fëanor was exiled from his kingdom. I chose to go with him, as all my brothers did—one now resides in each tower, though the two youngest share the sixth, and my father holds the seventh. I do not regret coming with them, although I am, at times, saddened that it means my doors are locked, and all I know of the world now is what I see through this window.”

Eönwë feels strangely heavy, as though his wings have been laden with water. He’s never _understood_ those that walk on the ground, and he understands this less—how one could trap something so wondrous: a creature with a voice like Maglor’s. It seems _wrong_ , surely more so than whatever caused the exile. 

Finally, Eönwë manages to speak, his voice rife with sorrow: “It is not fair for the world to be kept from you, nor you from it. I know many that would weep to hear your voice.”

Maglor lowers his eyes and averts them, his smile growing and his cheek still flushed: embarrassment and graciousness with a touch of longing. “I do not hate it,” he murmurs, though Eönwë doesn’t know _how_ , and thinks Maglor must truly be a spirit of pure _light_ to thrive under such conditions. “But... I do miss seeing new things to inspire my songs. I can only write now of what lies in the distance, things I might never touch.” 

“You should,” Eönwë insists. And then it occurs to him, his body filling with delight at the mere suggestion, “You _could_. For you spoke only of locks on doors, and there are no bars on your window. You cannot walk through the air, but with my wings, you might _fly_.”

Maglor’s head snaps up. His eyes grow wide again, lips parting. Eönwë nods to himself, pressing, “Yes. I will carry you—anywhere you should like. I will show you _everything_ , so that your songs can grow as they should.”

Another moment of bewildered hesitation, and Maglor slowly tells him, “I would love that.” Eönwë _beams_. Maglor sucks in a breath and adds, “But... but we must be careful. None must see me, and I must be back by midnight, lest my father learn of this and bars come to my windows.”

“Sing again for me when you want the use of my wings,” Eönwë promises, “And I will come to whisk you away, whether there be bars or no.” Then he opens his arms, coming closer, so that he might gather Maglor up in them.

Maglor reaches out to embrace him, and Eönwë holds his greatest discovery to carry back through the clouds.


End file.
